


A Professional Relationship

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-22
Updated: 2010-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:10:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They may share a bed but that doesn’t change either’s perverse game plan for the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Professional Relationship

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

He’s never entirely sure what does it: the bang of the bathroom door or the loud, almost violent, way that Jim manages to spit out his mouthwash in the morning. All that he knows is that at a ridiculous hour of the morning, after an interrupted sleep, with the room still stinking of cheap aftershave and smoke, somehow Jim is awake and getting ready for work.

“Thank God one of us has a regular job.” Jim’s voice is far too cheery as he enters the darkened bedroom.  
“Fuck off.” Sebastian mutters into the pillow.

There are a few more calamitous noises, that are really just Jim picking up last night’s clothing off the floor to throw into the laundry hamper, and then briefly, blessed silence. Then the kitchen door ricochets off the chair that Jim always forgets to push back under the table, the breadbin slams closed, Jim yelps when it just misses his fingers, the fridge door opens with a rattle of jars and there’s another brief bout of peace. The crash of plates the comes next is followed by the whistling of the kettle, Jim’s exasperated cursing as he tries to open the coffee jar, the irritating clatter of spoon against mug and finally the kitchen door striking that blasted chair again.

Sebastian rolls over onto his back and stares at the ceiling that he can just about see in the light from the hallway. At least the clank of a plate being put on the side table, to his right, on the other side of the bed, isn’t particularly loud because Jim is actually trying to be quiet. The mug of coffee follows in a similar muted fashion, but Sebastian can hear Jim chewing his toast and rattling hangers in the open cupboard. In what scant light there is from the hallway, Jim is pulling trousers and shirts out at an angle, trying to match them, all the while still somehow managing to eat the slice of toast that hangs out of his mouth, and keep the dressing gown that’s falling off him, on, just barely.

The quiet clank and clatter of hangers, coffee mug, and, what Sebastian finally identifies as, Jim’s keys, is familiar enough that Sebastian finds it soothing in an odd way. He won’t ever admit to it but he doesn’t mind the morning noises of Jim’s regular, respectable, routine. At least they’re in one place for long enough to actually rent a flat for a change. Living out of hotel rooms isn’t half as glamorous as the films tend to make out, then again neither are the flats for rent in London. They’re just up the road from Highbury & Islington, in a flat that has an odd enough configuration that Sebastian is convinced that, despite the age of the brickwork, once upon a time the landlord decided it would be more profitable to divide up each floor of the house. It’s not an exactly fashionable location, at least not the area they’re in, but it is useful for transport links and amenities. Most of their groceries either come from the overpriced convenience store within walking distance or from whatever high end store Jim stops off at on the way back. Currently, they’ve been eating potato waffles, baked beans and sausages for a week, with organic milk, tea, jam and fresh baked bread from Harrods.

“Beer.” Sebastian says thoughtfully, because he’s decided that he wouldn’t mind a bottle of something, regional and a little pricier for it, with dinner.  
“Tuberculosis.” Jim responds, as if that’s the most natural rejoinder in the world.  
“No.”  
A pause. The rustle of clothing at Jim dresses. “Did you... want me to pick some up on the way back?”  
“You’ll buy rubbish.”

Which is true. Jim doesn’t have the faintest idea about British regional ales. He doesn’t even have much of a clue about the wine he drinks when they do go out: it just has to be vaguely pink.

“Text me.”  
“You’ll never find- What time do you finish?”  
Jim shrugs.

Silhouetted in the doorway he actually looks like he’s senior corporate IT support. Sebastian squints. The trousers might even be pinstripe.

“Take an umbrella. It’s probably going to rain.”

There’s a burst of noise, bag being dropped, probably with a laptop still in it, long coat, suit jacket and trousers wrinkling, as Jim climbs up onto the bed. Nose to nose, Sebastian doesn’t need to look to see the maniacal gleam in Jim’s eyes. He reaches up, touches Jim’s cheek, and gives him a vaguely uncomfortable smile. Which is apparently all that’s needed, because suddenly Jim is gone, barrelling out of the flat, the front door closing behind him with a bang. Sebastian throws an arm up across his eyes. The early morning combination of too little sleep, Jim’s hyperactivity and offended feelings isn’t something Sebastian enjoys dealing with. If theirs was anything like a normal relationship he’d be scrabbling to make amends by now but, since it isn’t, there really isn’t much for him to do, though he does reach under the bed and turn on his mobile where he’s left it charging on the floor, and then, remembering his annoyance last night, reaches behind the side table to plug the main landline connection back in too. He is annoyed with Jim, annoyed with himself as well, but none of that has anything to do with the fact that he’s determined to available should Jim actually need to contact him.

It’s a throwback to just one incident, months ago, when they’d been moving about so often that Sebastian had started to dream about checking into hotels. IT consultancy took Jim all over the country and, since gambling happened any and everywhere, Sebastian had simply gone with him. It was safer to organise operations from a constantly shifting base anyway. Few people had reason to suspect an IT consultant engaged in various contracts around the country, or his partner. Sebastian doesn’t mind that he looks like the gold-digging boyfriend of a successful professional: it’s actually pretty good cover. Nobody questions his coming and going from the hotels, nobody really spares him a moment’s notice when he strolls through a foyer in the early evening. Even the casinos don’t really care too much. He wins but he doesn’t win too much, and he makes sure to lose enough not to raise suspicion. He has enough money himself to manage quite happily alone but there’d be no thrill in it, no excitement in just trawling casinos up and down the country, counting cards and testing his luck. Some nights he strictly applies mathematical method, others he relies entirely on the ‘feel’ of the table, but none of that really matches the thrill of the hunt. That’s what Jim provides: a new, more dangerous, more thrilling game than any of the card tables.

Unfortunately or fortunately, these days Sebastian can’t entirely decide, and indecision is a bad trait in a gambler, the thrill of the hunt has come with assorted baggage. Jim himself being the sort of irrational, emotional, lunatic that Sebastian would avoid like the plague over familiar green felt tables. At first, of course, it had been purely business and Jim’s delinquent madness had only been a minor irritation. Then somehow they’d moved in together, to help streamline operations, if living out of Jim’s hotel rooms could be described as ‘moving in together’. Then they’d ended up in the same bed, because Jim couldn’t sleep knowing that every time he got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, Sebastian would reach for his gun. Then the gun had gone in a bedside draw instead of under the pillow, because Jim sprawled and twisted and squirmed at night and the idea of accidentally getting shot, understandably, worried him. It was at the point, when he’d moved the gun, that Sebastian had started losing his grip on whatever it was between them. Up until that point Sebastian had viewed their relationship as purely professional, if a little intimate out of necessity. Even then, with the boundaries blurring, with Jim sleeping naked beneath a dressing gown that he always untied before he climbed into bed, with his hot limbs sprawled across Sebastian in the middle of the night, even with the restlessness that had Sebastian rubbing soothing circles on Jim’s back at ridiculous times in the morning, they’d managed a thin veneer of professionalism.

That had all changed with one restless night that had Jim waking up every half hour in a state of agitation. It had begun with the usual twisting and turning that muddled up the sheets and pillows, with Jim struggling to get comfortable in an expansive hotel bed. Then he’d done something that surprised Sebastian: he’d scrambled out of bed and come back with a bottle of pills. Two round white pills chased down with a few quick gulps of water and Jim had lain back down, flat on his back, as if expecting sleep to immediately claim him. Sebastian had turned to face the other way and settled down himself, glad that, for once, Jim had actually decided to do something about his ludicrous insomnia. He hadn’t at all been expected the frustrated whimper that had woken him up, by the bedside clock’s digital display, half an hour later. He’d rolled over and discovered Jim, curled up, eyes tightly shut, weeping out of sheer frustration. Noticing the attention, Jim had turned the other way and reached for his mobile, making a fuss of checking his e-mail and the international times at various locations via one of many applications. Taking the problem to be one he shouldn’t be concerned with, Sebastian had simply gone back to sleep, only to wake an hour or so later to Jim, sitting up in the dark, clutching the pill bottle as if he was considering doubling the dosage.

“Don’t you dare.”

Jim had put the bottle back down obediently and Sebastian had fancied he could almost see the nervous, apologetic, smile that graced Jim’s features. He’d slept again, with Jim lying down and trying to get to sleep. Of course that hadn’t happened and the next time he’d woken he’d had to forcibly pull Jim back down against the pillows, before he could reach for his phone again.

“Don’t.” He’d made it an order.

They’d spent the rest of the night in a tumble of limbs and bedsheets. Jim alternatively trying to press in against Sebastian or violently throwing the covers back and wriggling away. In the end Sebastian doesn’t know how much sleep Jim actually got that night but it evidently wasn’t much, certainly wasn’t enough that he ought to have tried to get up in the morning and go to work. Which is what he’d done anyway. He’d been gone for less than half an hour when Sebastian’s mobile had rung and Jim’s wavering voice had interrupted any ideas he’d had of trawling the city for the day.

“Please come get me. New Street station. I almost fainted on the train.”

Thankfully, for some unknown reason, Jim didn’t drive if he didn’t have to, so the car had still been in the hotel car park, and, somehow, Sebastian had made it through the miserable Birmingham morning traffic in reasonable time. He’d found Jim, leaning heavily on his umbrella, standing, occasionally swaying slightly, at the edge of the station car park. The rain had let up by then at least, and Jim had retained enough control over his limbs to throw bag and umbrella across the back seat before tumbling into the passenger seat and managing to put on his seatbelt. On the way back to the hotel the traffic had grown worse and they’d been stuck, almost mockingly, just before the crossroads that led to a rather large casino. Jim had mumbled something about calling work, about feeling faint, and then his head had lolled back against the headrest and his eyes had fluttered closed. Stuck there in the morning traffic, faced with car bumpers and light grey skies, Sebastian had looked over at his unconscious companion and marvelled at just how helpless unconsciousness could make anyone look. He’d taken in Jim’s pallor, highlighted against dark coat and scarf, the way his dark eyelashes were now stilled against his skin, the soft sound of his breathing through parted lips that looked like they’d been bitten almost raw. That had been the moment when Sebastian had begun to suspect that any protestations of professionalism he could make might just have been convenient lies. Of course Jim had chosen that moment to wake up, but in the midst of extreme fatigue he hadn’t appeared to notice Sebastian’s regard. Instead he’d managed to make a weak-voiced phone call to work, informing them that he’d made it part way to the client and then almost passed out, so wouldn’t be making the rest of the journey. On the phone he’d been ‘James’ formally, sounding frail but quietly professional, and though he’d lost consciousness almost immediately after he’d hung up, he’d held his mobile securely in a gloved hand the rest of the way to the hotel.

Back at the hotel, they’d made it back to the room where Jim had stripped off work clothing, even throwing his shoes aside, tugged on his dressing gown and staggered into the bathroom. On the other side of the closed door, Sebastian had heard Jim throwing up, but when he’d emerged Jim had waved aside any concern and simply tumbled into bed for the next six hours.

It isn’t an episode that Sebastian wants to repeat if he can at all help it, and of late Jim’s insomnia has been dying down, mostly because Jim has been, in his own way, self-medicating. Now, some nights, he’ll come home, eat, get changed and vanish for the evening. On nights like that, Sebastian lies awake in bed, waiting for Jim to come back, regardless of the hour. Normally, Jim comes back reasonably early, just past midnight, reeking of cigarette smoke and someone else’s aftershave. He won’t have drunk much, if anything, himself, nor does he smoke but the taste of it will be on his breath anyway. He’ll come back exhausted and laughing, strip off the sweaty clothing he’s worn to some bar or club, drop it on the floor, crawl into bed, and soon be fast asleep. On those nights Sebastian grinds his teeth and hates the tang of alcohol and nicotine he can smell on Jim’s breath when the other turns towards him.

Of course Jim had noticed his irritation, had been, in his own perverse way, amused by the attention: What had started off as an outside chance of making himself sleep, evidently turning into a way to push at Sebastian’s precariously faltering boundaries. Sebastian had held his tongue, despite his obvious snappishness about minor things and that had only prompted Jim further. Then Jim had started coming home later, looking more dishevelled and debauched. He’d gone directly into the bathroom to change on those occasions, sometimes even showering before he came to bed, almost as if he wasn’t entirely sure just how safe it was to flaunt his latest source of entertainment in Sebastian’s face. It had been strange to say the least. On one hand it was obvious but on the other suddenly Jim seemed to be trying to hide it. Confusion had taken something of the edge off Sebastian’s ire at any rate, until Jim had noticed that and upped the stakes again. He’d stopped showering before falling into bed, practically on top of Sebastian, and the scent of another man on his skin was always unmistakable.

In the long-run, Sebastian has no idea what Jim had been expecting in response, and in fact he sometimes wonders if Jim had even planned that far ahead at all. Regardless, the night he’d grabbed Jim’s backside beneath the sheets had almost been a surprise to them both. Jim had flinched, whimpered and pressed himself harder to Sebastian’s side, and Sebastian had let go. He’d rolled over and gone to sleep, as if there was nothing more to do, because there wasn’t. Because James Moriarty was gay and Sebastian Moran wasn’t.

They’ve carried on like that for a while now. Jim stays out late burning off that excess nervous energy of his and Sebastian lies in bed waiting for him. Sebastian still isn’t entirely sure of his feelings on the matter and often tells himself that he doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t want to think about any of it all, because it will complicate things even further than they’ve already been. He isn’t prepared to change anything, to rearrange his order of thinking. He isn’t even sure that he could. Not that he’s been without opportunity to do so. Jim still presses close to him at night, still sleeps mostly naked, still flinches and whimpers appropriately when Sebastian grabs his arse roughly. But it goes no further than that. Even if Sebastian does sometimes think about it, not about having sex with Jim, that doesn’t particularly interest him, but about hurting him instead. It’s the involuntary flinching under his hands that stirs him, the stifled sound of despair that makes him ponder other possibilities. He finds himself wondering about putting his hands around Jim’s neck and squeezing until the other passes out, about gripping his wrists so hard that they bruise. He wonders if Jim would try to stop him, as if he even could. It’s fear he’s chasing, defeat, loss. Those are the things that drive him: the capitulation in his prey’s eyes, the despairing moment when they realise all is lost, and that he has absolute power of them.

In that sense, in what little moments of clarity he will allow himself, Sebastian does understand his motivations completely. He can’t play his hand without knowing at least his own limitations after all. He has joined the greatest hunt of them all, but it isn’t quite the same one that Jim pitched to him. He isn’t chasing a great detective: for all he cares this Sherlock Holmes can rot in his Baker Street hovel. Sebastian is chasing a better prey, one that has eluded all capture until now, one that, until he batted his trap, hadn’t even proven itself real. Now he has it within his sights and the hunt is very nearly, almost, over. He still doesn’t know what he’s going to do about the effeminate detective or his military security. It might be a good idea to let Jim finish his game first and, when he’s satiated by his victory, then move in for the kill, or, it might be another, better, challenge to see if he can sway Jim’s priorities just as well as everything else.

The ringing of his mobile jolts Sebastian out of more pleasurable thoughts and directly into worry. Jim’s number on the caller ID not particularly helping with the latter.

“What?”  
“I know what you’re thinking.”  
“What the fuck are you-“  
“You’d like to knock me about a bit, wouldn’t you? Rough up me up a little, hmm?”  
“Fuck.” A soft curse.  
“No, you wouldn’t want that, but I wonder if you’d like to watch someone else do it.”  
“Bastard.”

Jim’s still laughing when Sebastian hangs up. Throwing his phone to the floor, Sebastian lies back against the bed and presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. He doesn’t know how it all changed, how suddenly Jim’s managed to turn everything on its head. What started as a professional association has become complicated and what was complicated has now become utterly confused. He’d been so certain that he’d had the upper hand, that he’d played a difficult hand skilfully, only to discover that his opponent has been feeding him all the cards. He’s tangled now, snared by a fangless predator. He’d been so sure of his position, of his cool, rational emotions in regards to the matter and now, Jim’s changed everything. Almost absently, he wonders if the effeminate detective knows what he’s in for, and then it occurs to him, in a slow, crushing realisation, that Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty are probably just as bad as each other.


End file.
